Not Thanksgiving 2019. It isn’t my turn. In case you’re getting a Sprouts turkey, this was a year or so ago. I’m sure they’ve improved. That year, there was a long pickup line and they were not organized, milling about, bumping into each other. Someone asked everyone in line—all of us women—what size turkey we wanted. We’d specified that when we ordered the bird, but never mind. A while later, someone else came and asked us again. Patiently, we repeated our information. A man showed up, said he was here to get a turkey and gave a name. What size did he want? “I don’t know,” he said. “I know nothing. I was just told to come here and get a turkey.” The women smiled sympathetically at him. He was just a man trying to follow orders, knew better than to guess about size. We found him endearing.
Your writing prompt, should you choose to accept it: one Thanksgiving-related memory or a gender-based anecdote. Write for five minutes and post it as a comment on the blog so your response can be saved and shared.
We see our in-laws twice a year. My wife’s in-laws, that is. They live in far-away Aurora. My vegetarian wife says she is done with cooking turkey, which we have almost always done smokingly in the Weber. What happens this year is complicated.
My side of the family (six siblings not siblilantly connected) gets along fine, but we range from Manhattan to Berkeley, so summer is when we get together. In Maine.
It was thirty years ago. My sister in law was a new bride, freshly minted into married life with my brother. In a kind-yet-bold move, she asked if she could bring the turkey for Thanksgiving. I say “bold,” because she had just married into a family with cooking skills that were legendary and generations deep. She was just trying to settle in, bless her.
I don’t know what got into me (well, the arrogance of youth was permanently in me back then) but I decided we shouldn’t have to compromise with her “non-us” cooking skills. I mean, she dared use one of those plastic bags! At a high temperature! So, with nose firmly planted in the…um, “air,” I sprung for an organic turkey, prepped it expertly, and cooked it slow–overnight–like my uncle (the professional chef) taught me.
It turns out, the knob on my stove had been replaced with the wrong model. Instead of a slow-cooking temperature that would produce a turkey sure to show up my new sister in law, it was roasting at a temperature around 450 degrees. I woke up the next morning to a cloud of smoke. That expensive bird was so infused to the pan, we had to throw it away in one blackened brick. Had it not been for my sister in law, we would have had a turkey-less dinner.
Her turkey was delicious. My house smelled like burnt turkey for weeks. The only saving grace was that my attitude wasn’t quite so stinky after that!
Karla, what a fine Thanksgiving story, well-told! What is the old saying? Pride goeth before a fall? Bravo!
Most holiday memories are a blur of crowded tables, laughter, clatter of cookware, plates and overlapping conversations, but seven years ago, November 21, 2012, two days before Thanksgiving, my father died. We thought about cancelling or postponing the family gathering, but decided to go ahead—Dad always loved Thanksgiving. My son, Matt, was living in a condo then, and we met at his community room. We all brought food to share as usual. We set a place for Dad. I remember the room, kitchen at one side, afternoon light streaming through the windows. I remember the empty chair at the end of the table. I remember my Dad.
Ah, Bob: you made me cry. What a bittersweet memory.
My older boys were probably six and eight, their baby brother still a toddler. I had been a stay at home mom from the get-go. Besides grocery shopping and driving kids hither and yon, I left the house for choir practice on Thursday nights and not much else. One Saturday, both older boys had birthday party invitations, and I was burned out, post-toasted on the rounds of shopping and wrapping, of driving and small talk over cold pizza and green-frosted cake. So I told the husband it was his turn, and invited a group of women over to scrapbook with me. (Yes, my creative outlet was as child-focused as most of the rest of my day.) In the middle of our work and conversation, an exultant husband walked in the door, told me that gifts for both parties were ready to go, and that he was on his triumphant way across town with all three boys. After he kissed me on the cheek and left, all moms present sang the praises of my angelic husband.
Ah, yes. Exactly. Thanks for this story, Jenny-Lynn.